Divine King
by Phantom Ou
Summary: Ciel's inner thoughts on what it takes to become a supreme ruler. "As is the king so are his subjects." One-shot.


**__****Divine King**** - One-shot**

**Since I had nothing in particular to do, I pounded out a one-shot about Ciel. Hopefully you guys will like it somewhat, and reviews are very much appreciated. This takes place on chapter 14 of the Kuroshitsuji manga. Please enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

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"_Scatter, as you may, as many pawns as you wish upon the chess board, but nonetheless they will fall unless a king commands them otherwise._" - **Phantom Ou**

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What makes a divine king?

Is it the number of pawns you possess? Or perhaps, is it the size of your domain of grandeur, your kingdom?

However to Ciel Phantomhive's philosophy, absolutely _none_ of that are of utmost importance. Strange, is it not?

You may have thousands of men stricken by acquiescence under your rule. But, if you have one pawn that is transcendent to the degree that he may get across the whole chess board in a single move, the rest will have faded beneath his sublimity and be disposed of swiftly.

You may have a supreme realm that flocks with an abundant amount of resources, land, and capital. To dwell sumptuously in luxury would then be defined as 'commonplace'. However, the greater the size, the greater the burden. Why must you carry the encumbrance of tending to innumerable, despicable human beings? Why must both of your arms be outstretched to hold the magnitude of this whole kingdom that can crumble just as easily as it was built? Why must you constrain yourself to shackles and become nothing more than a slave, in spite of your sovereignty?

To Ciel, that is a headache that can be avoided. You see, the key to a successful leader is to remove yourself of _all_ emotions.

Emotions impede on your goals. They lead you astray. They are vexatious, and they trouble you with the contemplation of morals and scruples. For how can a king raise a gun and expect his people to follow if he cannot pull the trigger?

As is the king so are his subjects, and thus, he cannot allow weakness.

Emotions afford a suicidal passageway to hesitation. To equivocate is to dig a grave for yourself for once you pause in your step to breathe, your enemy would have taken two steps further.

And then they will steal your throne.

To be the ideal king, one must discard of any traces that make them human beings, one must lead stoically for the thousands behind you to follow, and one may _not_ feel pity.

Once you have pulled that trigger, the bullet should be your mark; your declaration to the cold world that you have _chosen_.

There are really only two choices in this world: kill or be killed. If you succumb to the will and power of others, you have lost in this game of chess. However, if you, yourself, have imposed your strength on others, well then, you _cannot_ lose.

That is the very choice that Ciel has decided on and has conformed and dedicated his whole life upon. Emotions are needed not to exist; he simply has to rise to the top, no matter the piles of bodies that lie beneath him.

He has engraved this decision in the depths of his heart. It is unnecessary to state that the king must stand alone. The path is a lonely one, throttled with bloodshed and malice, and the savagery within human beings has been witnessed by the very eyes of this earl for a countless number of times. There is no turning back. Most definitely, in order to gain power, one must do so with the exclusion of all others. If you do not use but you _rely_ on others, you are weak. It is uncalled for to weep over the destitution of friendly companionship.

And yet, what is this? The day to commemorate his date of birth thirteen years ago is transpiring at the moment. It should be inconsequential—there is no need to be reminded of the tragedy that has befallen on this day three years ago. This should be immutable and unchanged; it is a dark and dreary day that does not entail any kind of celebration.

But why does this day this particular year feels different? It is a feeling he is unaccustomed to, but seeing his servants, his fiancée and his aunt around him, reserving this day just for him, the feeling amplifies until his belly churns.

With warmth?

It appears as though a soft, subdued flame has sparked from within. It is tamed and restrained at first, as though he is still wary of it. But gradually after hearing their bursts of joy and exuberance and acknowledging their arduous efforts to decorate the manor and prepare a cake for him, warmth travels throughout his whole body; rippling his skin with a tingly sensation.

The cake is a mess, no doubt; it has a grotesque form along with an excessive amount of frosting. The manor is immoderately embellished with ribbons and color. And the weariness that plagues them is evident, with the stains on their shirt and the sweat upon their brows. Light burns mar their skins and dying sparks sizzle within their disordered assemblages of hair, in which insinuate that many mishaps have occurred during the cake-making process.

Their efforts shine brightly though, behind the huge grins that grace their lips. For that, Ciel cannot help but find that this cake exhibits a unique beauty.

A gentle hand claps upon his head, and he turns toward the direction of his aunt, Frances Midford. To his surprise, she bestows him a kind smile that holds much contradictory over her strict and inflexible self.

"Happy thirteenth birthday, Ciel."

He has been rendered rigid and stiff as he gazes at everyone in the room who has come for him. Slowly, the fire inside him intensifies to the extent that a lump forms in his throat, and he is inarticulate for several moments.

This warmth is something he is not used to, but he does know of it for it is the same warmth that has caressed him when he was with his parents. It is the love and affection that he has abandoned long ago.

Even so, before he can properly gain control over himself, a genuine smile lifts his lips, and he nearly trembles at the blooming passion that spreads from the square of his chest to permeate his entire body.

"Thank you . . . so much!"

And for once, after an extensive and painful time, he is sincere about his gratitude.

They surround him, crowing out their best wishes for his birthday. He is overwhelmed by their sheer enthusiasm, but does not regard this with disdain. Then soon, Finnian runs up to the window to press his nose against it, his breath clouding the glass.

"Young Master, Young Master! Look! It's snowing!"

Ciel takes the liberty to peer out the window to see that it is, indeed, snowing. Pure white flakes drift down from the grey sky to delicately collide with the ground. Yet, he does not feel cold in the slightest.

So what does make a divine king?

Certainly, he was not entirely correct before. He does not know when he will discover the real answer, nor does he know if he will ever be able to reach it.

But for now, this king is content by merely being here with them.


End file.
